


The Summer Heat

by limerental



Series: Farm Verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, Farmer Thor, Fat Thor, Fat Thor appreciation squad, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Ice Play, M/M, No Fat Shaming, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Popsicles, Post-Endgame, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: "And if Loki is being honest (and he so rarely is, even to himself), he cannot imagine his brother shrinking himself back into the body of his youth. He would not hesitate to enact bodily harm on any who dared suggest it. Thor glows these days, his round cheeks dimpling with laughter, his broad arms seeming to be made to swallow Loki in exuberant bear hugs, and yes, he surely is enamored."Chubby!Thor and a very appreciative Loki, a farmhouse, summertime heat, and some very messy popsicles for self-indulgent reasons.





	The Summer Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written within the universe of [Another Ghost In This Town](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455457) but is plotless porn and can standalone

Loki is not a creature well-suited to life on a farm, let alone a farm in a Midgardian locality with summers that seem one volcano away from Muspelheim. Breathing is more akin to slow motion drowning, any wind only stirs a bit of hot dust around, and worst of all, his hair has succumbed to a level of frizz that no mortal hair product can contain.

Unfortunately, Thor is enamored with the rickety farmhouse on the hill and the sweeping pastures and the gaggle of farm animals and his very fruitful front garden. 

And unfortunately, though he can only be forced to vocalize it under -- _ahem_ – unique conditions, Loki is enamored with Thor. So, he stays.

He wakes each morning when it is still cool and the mist still hangs over the fields, and he leaves the farmhouse for a stroll. It's meditative, something he has done daily since he was a boy to help collect his restless thoughts, though back then the scenery was quite different. 

The little calico farm cat always keeps in step with him on the path, the one Thor calls Heimdall despite being told many times she is a female. Her golden eyes do seem to carry a deeper awareness than should be possible for a mortal feline. 

Thor keeps the path along the pasture fence well-mowed, and the going is easy, his strides loose and languid, the little cat bouncing behind him. It is as if the past dozen or so years never happened, no banishment, no imprisonment, no Thanos, no Ragnarok.

And then the sun crests the ridge, and he begins to sweat.

 _Dreadful_ , Loki thinks as trudges back up through the orchard to the farmhouse, already very sticky. He all but scurries from the shade of the last tree across the glaring sunlight in the front yard to reach the porch steps. He pauses with his hand on the railing when he notices Thor and draws in a quick breath.

Thor often wakes well before the sun as well to go out and tend to the goats and free the chickens from their coop and water the garden. Perhaps sensing the heat today would be truly brutal, he has finished his chores early and now lounges in his weathered rocking chair, working on his first brightly-colored popsicle of the day.

Contrary to the expectation, he has gained weight in his time spent on the farm. Thankfully, he no longer resembles an unkempt, nutrient-deprived sailor who has not seen land in months, but instead is plump all over with a ruddy flush to his cheeks. He braids his hair now or ties it in a low bun at the base of neck and keeps his beard neatly combed, but he has made no effort to return to his former slenderness. 

“I'm retired,” he always says by way of explanation if anyone ever questions the truly obscene amount of baked goods he can devour in one sitting. He's even taken to actually using the dusty kitchen and is not half bad at cooking.

And if Loki is being honest (and he so rarely is, even to himself), he cannot imagine his brother shrinking himself back into the body of his youth. He would not hesitate to enact bodily harm on any who dared suggest it. Thor glows these days, his round cheeks dimpling with laughter, his broad arms seeming to be made to swallow Loki in exuberant bear hugs, and yes, he surely is enamored.

Which is perhaps an understatement.

Thor sprawls in the rocking chair, legs spread with one knee cocked up and bare feet covered in cut grass. He is bare-chested, revealing how much paler his round body is than his browned forearms and neck, and he is wearing his favorite denim cut-offs that barely manage to contain his thighs. The mound of his belly rises above them, faintly dimpled with lightning stretch marks that grow darker near his waist. His chest is soft and dusted with pale hair, swirling from his deep navel up around his breasts, and is currently tinted blue in places from the slowly melting popsicle that the heat is making quick work of.

Loki watches a blue droplet drop to his flesh and slip down the crest of his belly and into the rolls bunched along his flank to disappear there. Another falls and leaves a blue trail down almost to his navel and stops there, quivering.

He swallows hard and looks up to see Thor's eyes on him, his mouth stilled around the frozen treat. His lips are faintly blue as well, and as Loki stares, he draws the popsicle back and his tongue flicks out, stained a dark purple. He licks at a few errant drops on the back of his hand and smiles one of those smiles that means Loki is not going to be able to pretend he is unaffected by the scene before him.

He so rarely can pretend to be unaffected anyway, at least not where Thor is concerned.

“Good morning,” Thor says and draws the popsicle back into his mouth with a noisy slurp and a pop of his lips as he pulls it back out again. “How was your walk?”

Loki has broken out into a film of sweat, not just from the humid heat that settles around them. The sun is barely up, and yet he feels entirely too warm, a flush rising up the back of his neck.

“This is incredibly cliché, even for you,” Loki says, and Thor laps up the swiftly melting length of the popsicle with a playful glint in his eyes. And they called _him_ a god of mischief.

“Simply trying to keep cool,” Thor says. He nudges an ice chest at his feet that Loki hadn't noticed before. “There are more if you would like one.”

Loki doesn't care for the sugary sweetness of most mortal treats, but oh yes, he finds himself desiring one very badly.

He climbs the front steps until he is standing before Thor and nudges off his shoes, the weathered boards of the shaded porch cool beneath his bare feet. Thor has stopped working at the popsicle to watch him and rivulets run more quickly now down the length of his browned arm. One drop falls from his wrist onto a pale breast, skimming along the edge of his nipple, and Thor hisses from the cold, momentarily taking his eyes off Loki to lap again at the popsicle.

And that is all the distraction that Loki needs to slip to his knees before Thor, cracking the lid of the ice chest to fish inside for a fresh popsicle. The plastic wrapper is disposed in half a blink, and Loki allows the hand holding it to rest on Thor's exposed thigh, wooden stick caught loosely between his long fingers.

This one is lime green. 

Its tip hovers just above the faint, blond hair on his upper thigh, close enough that Thor can feel the cold emanating from it but not actually making contact with his skin.

“Loki,” he says, and another droplet from his own popsicle falls to his chest and makes its lazy down the mound of his belly, slipping around the outside of his navel this time and curling down to where his stomach bulges over and hides the button of his denim shorts. The blue droplet rests there, a breath away from spilling over onto the fabric, and Loki can't stop himself from leaning close to lap it from Thor's skin.

The taste is mostly just skin with a hint of sugar, and this close he can smell Thor, sweat and fabric softener and an earthy scent, feel his body heat through the fabric that his cheek brushes slightly. Thor's skin is soft and dimples under even the slight pressure of his tongue as it follows the trail of the droplet to the edge of his navel and then draws away. He looks up to meet Thor's eyes over the sizable girth of his now decidedly sticky chest, their only point of contact the hand that rests against Thor's thigh, still with a loose grip on the lime green popsicle.

“You're melting,” says Loki, and Thor blinks dumbly at him.

“Huh,” he says and then notices the state of his popsicle about to slip from its stick and quickly moves to pop it into his mouth, finishing it off. A few chunks of ice fall and strike his chest before he can capture them, drawing something like a moan from his blue-tinted lips. Thor's belly shakes with his quickened breath, and body heat makes quick work of the ice, melting to trickles that Loki watches coast along his plump belly and down into the folds of skin at his side, dipping through dark pink stretch marks there.

Again, he leans before he can stop himself and laps at the skin there. The stretch marks have a peculiar give to them, the skin both ridged and hollowed, and Thor does moan this time, a low noise of pleasure from the back of his throat. And then flinches, thighs jumping, as Loki has forgotten the popsicle in his hand and allowed it to press against his bare leg for a moment.

Loki pulls it away and draws back to watch green trail down the soft underside of Thor's thigh and disappear into the crease at the back of his knee. He slips the lime green popsicle between his lips to attempt to contain the mess, and Thor makes an appreciative groan.

Thor still grips the empty stick from his popsicle, and his mouth is half-open, a flush high on his round cheeks. 

The lime flavor is unappealing and far too sugary, but Loki sucks at the frozen treat earnestly, both because he is loathe to have any of the syrupy liquid fall on his clothes and because he knows Thor enjoys the visual. He allows his eyes to flutter shut as he draws the popsicle from his mouth again, resting the tip briefly on his bottom lip, before he looks back up at Thor again.

Thor is panting, the blue syrup beginning to dry on his chest, and he has dropped the empty stick to the floor. He bends forward toward the ice chest to reach for another, but the movement tips the rocking chair toward Loki and his belly brushes against the popsicle in his raised hand. He curses at the cold and makes to lean back again, but Loki stills him and trails a more deliberate line along the bunched girth of his belly.

“Fuck,” Thor says in almost a whimper, and then Loki dips his head once more to lap the sugary puddles from Thor's hot skin. “ _Fuck._ ”

Tipped forward in the rocking chair, Thor is close enough for Loki to rise up and meet him in a kiss, his free hand cupping his face. It is sweet and cold with the peculiar thrill of chilled tongues and lips sliding together and soon warming. The popsicle dips back against Thor's skin, this time catching along the curve of a breast, and he gasps into Loki's mouth. 

Loki drags the frozen treat in a deliberate slide across his skin until it catches on the sensitive skin of a nipple, and he holds it there. Thor reacts with a gasp, breaking from the kiss to arch his back and grip the arms of the rocking chair tightly as it tips back again, and Loki leans across his soft body to replace the cold of the popsicle on his erect nipple with the heat of his mouth.

Thor groans, and, leaned across Thor's body as he is, Loki feels the hard line of Thor's dick jump where it presses against denim. 

The sun has risen fully now, blazing beyond the shade of the porch, the humidity has reached levels that turn the air to soup and turn each breath to a gasp, and the cicadas are already screaming in the trees. 

Loki shucks his shirt over his head, somehow without dislodging the popsicle in his hand, and rises to shimmy out of his pants and underwear, returning to Thor to clamber up and straddle his broad thighs. All of Thor gives to his touch, soft and supple, the curves a distinct contrast to his sharp edges. He is wide enough that Loki's thighs ache in straddling him. He is so _beautiful_ that it aches somewhere else entirely.

Though mainly, it aches between his legs where his dick rubs against the swell of Thor's belly, leaking sticky between them. 

The lime green popsicle, mostly forgotten, has begun to melt in earnest, dribbling over Loki's fingers and onto Thor's flushed skin. Every drop elicits a new gasp from Thor, and his hips shift, searching for friction and not finding it.

“Loki,” Thor says, moving to swallow Loki's angular hipbones with his big hands. Loki holds still above him, the popsicle still dripping wet spatters across his belly. Thor's hips jerk but find no purchase, his dick trapped tight in his denim cut-offs. “Loki, _please_.”

“Please what?” Loki hums as he leans back to deliver Thor a different angle to rut against but still no real friction. It truly is far too hot for much teasing, but he can't help it. He remembers the popsicle and brings it to his mouth to suck free the last of it, drawing the wooden stick slowly from his mouth. Thor pants beneath him.

“Very unkind to me,” he gasps, and Loki ducks to kiss him on the mouth, his lips so chilled that Thor's scald. He lifts Thor's belly to release the button on his shorts, the waistband digging in tight. With the button unclasped, the zip springs open of its own accord, no underwear beneath, and still Loki does not move to touch him.

“You wear these ridiculous pants simply to torture me,” Loki says.

“They're comfortable!” Thor says, and Loki quirks an eyebrow. “Well not presently but--”

Loki slips a hand inside Thor's shorts and pulls his dick free, pressing them both together in one hand with a shuddering pleasure that he can feel from the base of his spine to his toes.

Thor groans, and the rocking chair leans farther back, tipping almost to the point of falling, and the air is too hot and too thick to breathe, closing in on them. Loki slides his hand firmly around their lengths just once, twice, and then Thor is coming in quick spurts, adding to the sticky mess on his belly and Loki is finishing along with him, thighs quivering and overstretched.

It's both too much and over too fast, and they do nothing but cling to one another for a moment, gasping.

Loki is the first to come back to himself, slipping carefully from the rocking chair to stretch his strained legs and retrieve his pants. He wrinkles his nose when he finds somehow they are covered in melted popsicle juice.

“This is your fault,” he says, and Thor, still out of it, just shakes his head. He rises from the rocking chair and starts down the porch steps, not bothering to zip his decidedly tiny shorts. 

“Last one to the pond is a Bilgesnipe,” he shouts and takes off full speed and barefoot down the pasture without even waiting to see if Loki will follow.

Loki curses under his breath and, of course, runs off into the sunlight after him.


End file.
